


seam-less-ly

by chaospitals (hardscrabble)



Series: between two fourth lineys [1]
Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, Cameos by Washington Capitals Ensemble, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, shocked to find I am the first to write podcast slash, someone's gotta do it might as well be me, unbeta'd because it is 1:30 in the morning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 13:33:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22906030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hardscrabble/pseuds/chaospitals
Summary: Nic is really not sure what to do with his A giving him knowing looks about Garnet, so he smiles like a normal guy, like I'm-just-happy-after-a-win, and books it.
Relationships: Nic Dowd/Garnet Hathaway
Series: between two fourth lineys [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1775260
Comments: 27
Kudos: 118





	seam-less-ly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dromaeolophus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dromaeolophus/gifts).

> 2/25/2020 v. WPG: first Garny home goal, twelve seconds later a Garny fight, and the Podcast Boys episode of Level With Me released earlier today. here, have some smut about it.

It’s not even a question and he’s pretty sure they both know it, even with five stalls and O between them. Press is nuts already, two big noisy clusters around O and Garnet both and the smaller groups talking to Holts and Vee and Kovy, and with all that crap Nic gets his shit squared away and his suit back on and no one even notices he’s wound up like a coiled spring. Or, like, mostly no one. Backy—who’s very much not _mostly no one_, like, obviously, but in a numbers sense, statistically, he’s the only one of fifty-odd people in the dressing room who notices Nic being any kind of way—flicks a glance his way, one flash of pale green and the least hint of a smirk. It’s a _been there_ kind of smirk, an _I get it_ and a _go get it_ in one, and Nic is _really_ not sure what to do with his A giving him _knowing looks_ about Garnet, so he smiles like a normal guy happy after a win and books it.

In the half-hour between Nic getting back and Garnet coming through the door he manages to take his coat off, he’s reasonable enough to do that, and his suit jacket goes somewhere, but beyond that, like, who can blame him for not being able to sit and chill, honestly, _who_, so he paces and fidgets with stuff and checks his phone and grins like a _fucking_ idiot at nothing, at video clips of the goal and the fight and the shootout win mob, but also at nothing. At the windows, the fucking walls, whatever. His blood is basically just fizzing adrenaline, and he’s sweating—not, like, egregiously, his temples and his forehead, enough that the breeze generated by pacing like a weirdo feels nice—and he is _going_ to climb out of his skin any second now—

—and a key scrapes in the lock and the door swings open and Nic decides, nah, better stuff to climb, and Garnet’s against the wall about two seconds after the door shuts behind him. “Geez, give a guy a minute, _hey, Garny, was traffic bad, _nah, it was pretty _mmmnph_—”

Definitely not the best executed kiss of Nic’s life, not even close, but effective. Technique is overrated anyway. Garnet’s sucking on his tongue, hooking his fingers into Nic’s belt, and Nic gets his hands under Garnet’s coat and suit jacket and shoves both off his shoulders, which works until it doesn’t because they pin Garnet’s arms at the elbow, but is that really _not working_? Because now Nic can just go to fucking _town_ on Garnet’s neck while he runs his hands over his shirt and gets his thigh between Garnet’s legs and yeah, sure, Garny, a minute to talk about fucking _traffic_, like he’s not hard already, like he’s not grinding against Nic already, like he has _any _room to talk _at all_. “Shut,” Nic says, over Garnet’s stream of swearing, “the fuck up,” and undoes his belt and his button and his zipper all with one hand and grabs his cock through his boxer briefs.

Garnet shuts the fuck up for two full seconds—his eyes are closed, head tipped back, lips just parted, and Nic could probably look at him like that for a good hour or three but he doesn’t need to know that—before his mouth pulls into a lopsided dopey smile. “Got you good, huh, that goal.”

“_Shut_ up,” says Nic, because so what if it did, honestly, and drops to his knees. Like, a controlled drop, because concessions must be made to being twenty-nine and five seasons deep in the NHL. It still gets him where he wants, doing what he wants, which is yanking Garnet’s trousers and underwear down and pushing his shirt up, just far enough. The pants pin his legs, and his coat and jacket are still absurdly around his elbows, and sure, Garnet _could_ move, but he doesn’t, because Nic licks the head of his cock, one twisting sweep over the slit that makes Garnet’s whole body jerk, and then takes him in his mouth. Makes up the difference with his hand.

Nic feels a leashed kind of wild, like he could lose his absolute shit but he’s choosing not to, because, fuck, first home goal, _and _that fucking fight, and yeah, Nic’s had a boner more or less since the second half of the second period but Garnet has fucking _earned_ some technique, which might not be overrated.

He looks up and Garnet is gazing at him, mouth open, that dazed kind of wonder that he gets sometimes all over his face, like he doesn’t even notice he’s still pretty much tangled up in his own clothes, and Nic swallows around him, licks hard along the vein, watches as his eyes flutter shut again, as his head tips back and hits the wall. _Good_.

He keeps it kind of standard for a bit—pressure, spit-slick, up the pace a little and a little more and a little more—and Garnet inhales deep and the backs of his thighs tighten and Nic pulls off, just leaves his hand in place, completely still. The noise Garnet makes is—indignant, at first, and then he looks back down at Nic and Nic _sees _when it clicks for him, eyes going hooded, and yes, _exactly_, good job, bud, that’s the idea. Nic jacks him, slow, and closes his lips around the head of his cock. All about tongue now, broad swipes and twisting swirls and when Garnet whines in his throat Nic goes deep and sucks _hard_ until—

Yup, right then, which is when he backs off.

“_Shit_,” Garnet hisses, turning the _t_ into an entire second syllable, and his hips are twitching, “you’re gonna—”

“Get you off,” says Nic, conversational. “Sometime.” Which makes Garnet whine again, but it turns into a gasp when Nic takes him as deep as he can because fuck it, they’re flying tomorrow, no one’s gonna make him talk. Swallowing this time elicits this punched-out sound, and Garnet’s _shaking_, just, his abs tight beneath Nic’s fingers and the jut of his hipbones just beneath the heels of Nic’s hands. Nic is _just_ in time and Garnet fucking convulses, the coat and jacket around his arms falling to the floor behind him, panting like he got bag-skated and talking through it, nonsense, _fuck, Nic, Jesus, just fucking, Christ, I need, you’re so, fuck_.

Nic gentles him, careful, sweeping the palms of his hands down Garnet’s thighs—the outside, he knows what he’s _doing_—and back up, pressing firmly enough that it won’t tickle, up to his ribs beneath his shirt. Which he’s still wearing, which would be absurd, but Nic’s fully dressed, so whatever, and Garnet’s nearly calm—his eyes are closed, have been closed—when Nic takes him and goes for it. Hard, fast, sucking and working his tongue and when he looks up Garnet gasps, “_Please_.”

He squints, like he’s thinking about it, and Garnet closes his eyes and _sobs_ and, okay, Nic taps him twice, the top of his thigh with the hand that isn’t around his cock, and the only reason he doesn’t fall when he comes is Nic holding him up. Swallowing around him, mouthing him through it and beyond until Garnet, shaking and swearing, realizes his hands are free and uses one to swat at Nic’s shoulder. Weakly; it’s like getting hit with a balled-up sock, but Nic isn’t _mean_, just—whatever he is here, with Garny, and he backs off, swipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. He keeps one hand on Garnet’s hip as he slides down the wall until he hits the floor, and then Nic helps with the important stuff, like getting Garnet’s shoes untied and actually taking his pants off while Garnet works on his tie and shirt.

“Hey, Garny,” says Nic, only an octave lower than usual and only as raspy as he’d be with a post-win hangover, and when Garnet rolls his head to the side to look at him—Nic’s working on his own clothes—he finishes, “Was traffic bad?”

Garnet blinks, twice, slow. “I can’t,” he says, wonderingly, “fucking _stand_ you.”

Nic shrugs, pressing a hand against his own erection, which—yeah, still, since the fucking second period, _obviously_. “Good thing you’re sitting down.” He grins, knows it’s the expression Garnet calls _shit-eating_, and before Garnet can begin organizing the kind of response that excuse for a joke actually deserves, he pulls Garnet down so he’s lying properly on the floor, head pillowed on his own coat, and straddles his upper thighs. Bends, grabs Garnet’s shoulders, kisses him hard and, okay, makes this noise in his throat that would be embarrassing in any other context because his cock is right against Garnet’s v-line and, God, okay, _okay_, since the second _fucking_ period—

“Come on, bud,” says Garnet, his own voice wrecked, before he sinks his teeth into Nic’s trapezius and closes his hands around Nic’s waist, and Nic—okay, there are times for dignity, and there are times for rutting on someone’s abs like eight different breeds of dog, and now is the second category and that is fine, that’s _incredibly_ fine, that’s fucking perfect, Garnet’s sweat and Nic’s precome easing the friction just enough. Garnet is muttering stuff right into his ear, breath hot, _come on, you got me so good, I got you, Jesus, feeling you, so fucking hot, God, I love that—_and, fuck, his orgasm is a fucking whiteout, lightning in his veins.

He blinks himself back to this plane of reality, the one where he’s folded over his liney naked on a hardwood floor, and presses his nose to the skin under Garnet’s ear. Garnet is running one hand down the length of his spine, humming tunelessly, just like this satisfied _hmmm_. “Good goal, man,” Nic says. Croaks. Whatever.

“Mm-hmm.”

Nic stays right where he is, skin-to-skin with Garnet, until his pulse is something like normal and the stickiness situation is actually borderline unbearable. Only then does he suggest, “Shower. Sleep.”

“Gatorade,” Garnet counters.

“Shower Gatorade,” he counter-counters. He can _feel_ Garnet’s expression turning to _what the fuck,_ and says, completely reasonably in his opinion, “There’s shower beers. Shower Gatorades are for after the shower beers. Or,” as it occurs to him, “after the shower sex.”

“What goes _on_ in your head?”

“Good ideas. Obviously.”

“_Obviously_,” Garnet repeats, mocking. He kisses Nic right after, sweet and slow, as if he’s making up for making fun, as if he could possibly actually offend Nic, which is ridiculous, but the payoff is pretty nice, Nic will happily admit. “Good ideas.”

“Politics,” says Nic. “And _The Bachelor_.”

A sigh, like from the depths of Garnet’s soul, whatever the hell is down there. “I cannot stand you. Do_ not_—”

Nic doesn’t giggle, because he’s not a giggler. “Not saying anything, bud.”

The shower Gatorades are a fucking _awesome_ idea, it turns out.

Most of Nic’s ideas are.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading, comments give me LIFE, & I'd rather dress medium
> 
> I have a regular level of normal feelings about hockey over on [tumblr](https://chaospitals.tumblr.com/)


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